The man’s forehead bristled into a crescent of wrinkles. He was in his fifties with a dodgy porn-star moustache. Wiry black hairs sprouted from the top of his shirt and there were beads of sweat coating his bare arms. He’d made an effort to paste his thinning hair across the top of his wilting scalp, but he was fooling no one. Give it a year or two and he’d be completely bald.
‘Cash and bastard Carry,’ he hissed, motioning towards the papers with a hairy finger. ‘Twenty per cent this year – that’s how much their prices have gone up. Twenty. Sodding. Per. Cent.’ He punctuated his annoyance with a jab of the finger and then stood up squarer. He wasn’t very tall, five six or seven, and winced as he straightened, clutching the base of his back. ‘Can I help you?’ he added.
Jessica waggled the room seven fob towards him.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That’s your car outside. I’m Mr Eckhart – I own this hotel.’
So this was the mysterious ‘Luke’ that Brandon had mentioned. No wonder he was so bothered about his spreadsheets, considering he owned the adjoining café, the hotel next door – and quite possibly, according to Brandon, the entire rank of hotels, too.
‘Yeah, it’s mine,’ she confirmed, trying to sound as if having a vehicle taken away by police was a normal everyday occurrence.
‘The inspector said something about—’
‘I’m a witness, that’s all. Nothing serious.’
Eckhart’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘He said it was nothing to do with the hotel… nothing I needed to worry about.’
‘Precisely.’
‘He, er… didn’t say exactly what this was all about…’
‘Oh… didn’t he…?’
Eckhart’s head was nodding slightly, expecting the full story, but Jessica didn’t expand, leaving an awkward pause. When the hotel owner realised his fishing expedition wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he stretched out a hand for the key. Jessica nudged it slightly out of his reach.
‘I was wondering if I could stay another night or two.’
He was so surprised that his heels clicked involuntarily as he bounced onto the balls of his feet. ‘Oh… of course. How long were you thinking?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Jessica opened up her purse, taking out a twenty-pound note and two tens. ‘Can I pay day to day? I have cash.’
Eckhart’s tongue flickered hungrily across his lips as he eyed the money. ‘That’s fine. I gather Brandon took your details last night… they must be here somewhere…’
He started bashing the computer keyboard, eyebrows meeting in the middle in annoyance as he tortured the enter key.
‘Um… Daniel-something…?’
‘That’s my last name.’
‘Right, of course.’ He was a one-finger typist, preferring brute force to any degree of subtlety. ‘Got you.’ He peered up at her. ‘That’ll be forty pounds, please. The maids refill the minibar once a day and you pay as you go.’
‘I sort of emptied it last night. I paid a deposit when I got here.’
They went back and forth over charges and whether she should pay now or when she left. In the end, Jessica gave him her final fifteen quid to settle it, agreed she’d get her deposit back at some point in the indeterminate future and then got down to the serious business.
‘I was told there was breakfast…’
Eckhart’s joy at fleecing every last penny she had from her was short-lived as the money disappeared into his pocket. His features scrunched back into the scowl that seemed to suit his face.
‘Technically,’ he said, ‘the complimentary breakfast offer finishes at half past ten.’
Jessica tugged at her hair, not wanting to argue, though her stomach was burbling a reminder of its emptiness. ‘I would’ve been down in time, but that chief inspector wanted a word, then they decided to impound my car. Can’t you make an exception just this once?’
She offered her sweetest smile, which, by her own admission, wasn’t that sweet any longer. Age and her job had been eroding it year by year. Her friend Izzy often said she didn’t know whether Jessica was being sarcastic or genuine. Half the time she wasn’t sure herself.
Eckhart bored down upon his spreadsheets and then turned to the computer monitor as if trying to work out how much this breakfast might cost him. ‘Fine,’ he eventually tutted without looking up. ‘The café’s through that door. Tell them I said it was okay.’
Jessica’s stomach was still murmuring, this time in disapproval at the grease-ridden bacon and eggs she had put away. Considering how out-of-date the rest of the area was, the café was in surprisingly decent nick. It wasn’t like the swanky café-bars that frequented so many pavements in Manchester, but it was clean and the food decent. The bloke behind the counter had a loose grasp of English, but that was hardly uncommon.
She was back in the hotel room unpacking bags for life after finally making it to the nearby supermarket. She’d got a cheap change of clothes, some wash stuff, a notepad, a pen and a phone charger. For a reason of which she wasn’t entirely sure, Jessica had also withdrawn the maximum three hundred pounds from the cashpoint. She didn’t like having that much cash on her but had a niggling sense that she’d need it at some point.
The morning was already gone but Jessica still wanted to do some asking around about Bex. The limescale-tainted shower had been bearable and she was ready to head out when her phone started to ring. She rushed across the room, wearing only a scratchy towel, and grabbed her phone from the floor. She had yanked the cord for the lamp from the wall, replacing it with the newly bought charger. Why did hotel rooms never have enough plug sockets?
The number was unknown. ‘Hello,’ Jessica said.
‘DI Daniel?’
‘Who is this?’
‘DCI Fordham. I’m at the station. Well, our station.’
Jessica could tell from his weary tone that it wasn’t good news. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘The father of Peter Salisbury has formally identified his son’s body. It was always likely to be him; now we know for sure.’
‘Oh…’
‘We looked into the phone number you gave us for Peter, too. It was pre-pay, one of those use-and-throw things. A burner. Not under a contract.’
‘So there’s no proof of who contacted who and the times?’
‘We’re talking to the phone companies, but…’
Jessica unfortunately knew the issues that came with trying to get phone records. There were warrants to apply for, channels to go through. If Peter had a contracted phone in his name, it was easier. An anonymous number wasn’t as straightforward – and, even if it was, she could have obtained the phone number herself in order to come up with an alibi. There was no proof she’d spoken to Peter in the way she’d described – only that she’d been with him on the night he’d been stabbed.
‘What about the CCTV by the phone booth?’ she asked.
‘We’re looking into it. I just thought you should know about Peter’s phone number.’
He sounded genuine, so Jessica thanked him and hung up. With a stabbed dead body, blood on her car, her absence of spare clothes, no proof she’d called Peter and a general lack of reasoning for why she was in Blackpool at all, Jessica’s explanation for what had happened the previous evening was unravelling in spectacular fashion.
Eight
Detective Sergeant Izzy Diamond sounded in a good mood when she answered her phone. She didn’t bother with a ‘hello’, or ‘hi’, jumping straight in with, ‘You’ll never guess what Archie’s been up to.’
Jessica was ready to spill everything that had happened in the previous few hours, but even that could take a back seat to DC Davey-related gossip.
‘What’s he done now?’ she asked.
‘Someone from the Met was on, asking us to check some information for them. Franks dropped it on Arch and he ended up calling them back. Anyway, turns out this London bloke was a Chelsea fan, so Arch was—’
Reality came crushing down on Jes
sica as she realised life was too short for another incident of Archie taking football far too seriously. He took any slight on Manchester United as if someone had insulted him personally. Probably worse.
‘Sorry,’ Jessica interrupted. ‘I’m in a bit of trouble.’
Izzy went silent and it took Jessica a few minutes to explain the path that had led her to Blackpool and then the series of events that had culminated in her car being carted off to a forensic compound somewhere. She didn’t know where that type of thing was done in Manchester, let alone Blackpool.
When she finished speaking, there was a short pause and then Izzy asked if that was everything.
‘Isn’t that enough?’ Jessica replied.
‘Yeah, sorry… I didn’t mean it like that. It all sounds a bit… weird.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘What do you need?’ Izzy asked.
It was a sad state that Izzy knew instinctively that Jessica was calling for a favour, not simply a friendly catch-up. Jessica wanted information on Peter and Katy Salisbury – whatever was in the police system. Did either of them have criminal records? Where precisely did they live? Was there anything in the file to indicate why Katy might have disappeared? And so on. If she was being accused of killing the bloke, it would be nice to know who he was. Someone had stabbed him to death and it wasn’t her.
Jessica started to ask and then stopped herself with a resigned sigh. ‘No, I can’t. Not at the moment, anyway. You’ve got a daughter and a life. If it ever comes to it, they’ll be able to check my phone records and see that I’ve called you. If you search for anything on the system, it’s you who’ll end up in trouble.’
‘We both know ways to look things up without actually looking them up.’
‘I know, but let’s leave it for now.’ Jessica could hear Izzy breathing at the other end of the line, then added, ‘Just keep all of this to yourself for now.’
‘Of course,’ Izzy replied.
‘I’m going – I’ve got things to sort out.’
‘If you need me…’
‘Thanks.’
Jessica hung up and spent a few moments staring at the blank screen. She really could have done with the information, but it wasn’t fair to involve Izzy, not while she still had a degree of control over her own destiny. She wondered how quickly that might change.
After such a long period as a police officer, Jessica took it for granted that she could discover information on pretty much whomever she wanted whenever she wanted. As well as their own databases, she was able to put in requests to all sorts of companies and agencies that would build a picture of who a person might be. Away from that, and with only her phone’s Internet connection to help, she felt a little lost.
Searching for Peter’s name threw up very little, although Jessica discovered a partial address from the edited Electoral Register. After a bit more work, she realised the full Electoral Register was viewable – but only in person.
Jessica headed downstairs, to where Eckhart was still working on the computer in the hotel reception. If it was possible, he seemed even more annoyed than he had before. She caught the words ‘bastards’, ‘think I’m a charity’ and ‘son of a…’ before he noticed her.
‘Is Talbot Square easy to find?’ Jessica asked.
‘Whatcha going there for?’
‘I heard the town hall was a good-looking building.’
He didn’t seem convinced. ‘You into architect-stuff and all that?’
‘Sort of.’
Eckhart poked a thumb towards the town centre. ‘Past the tower, opposite the North Pier. Kinda hard to miss…’
‘Thanks.’
‘If you’re after something to do, people say the zoo’s nice. Wouldn’t know myself.’ The forced smile still wasn’t suiting him, but he was at least trying to be nice. Jessica had taken two steps towards the door when he added: ‘Is that chief inspector guy coming back?’
Jessica didn’t turn as she answered with complete honesty. ‘I really hope not.’
Talbot Square was slightly harder to miss than Luke Eckhart had made out, largely because it wasn’t a square. Not only was there no physical square, there was barely a public clearing. It was more of a junction; full of conflicting signs with a mishmash of white lines and yellow cross-hatches painted on the road. There were a couple of bars, a bank, buses, cars and an Ibis. It was all a bit dull. Eckhart had been right about one thing, though – it was opposite the North Pier.
The only thing making the area stand out was the rabble of people with banners protesting outside the town hall. If it hadn’t been for them, Jessica would have been left walking up and down, oblivious to where the town hall was. It was red-bricked with a clock tower in the centre, but nothing out of the ordinary compared to the rest of the area. There was a small paved area at the front, the focal point of which seemed to be a bin, which was presumably how they rolled in Blackpool. Vegas it wasn’t.
Jessica was heading for the town hall steps when one of the protestors touched her arm. She turned defensively, but it was only a rakish young man offering her a leaflet. He was all loose dark curls, beaded bracelets and casual shirt.
‘Have you got a minute?’ he asked.
Despite her instinct to send him packing, Jessica figured that, if he was local, he might be able to help.
‘Sure,’ she replied.
He breathed a sigh of relief, having presumably been sworn at, ignored and generally abused through the morning. ‘Do you know what percentage of young people are unemployed in Blackpool?’ he asked.
Jessica glanced past him towards the array of banners. She realised that everyone was in their late-teens or early twenties. There was a small collection of flasks and mugs on the paving slabs between them as the protestors spread out, trying to get their message across. It was all delightfully British.
One slogan said: ‘JOBS, JOBS, JOBS’, another: ‘FAT CATS, FAT PROFITS’. Off to the side, a girl was thrusting a ‘1 IN 5 NOT IN EDUCATION OR EMPLOYMENT’ sign into the air.
‘Twenty per cent?’ Jessica said.
‘Twenty per— Oh…’ The young man stopped himself and stared at her, then nodded towards the town hall. ‘You’re the first person who’s known that. I’m Darren and we’re here today trying to make that lot in there realise what a problem the lack of jobs is creating in our community.’ Darren pushed one of his leaflets into Jessica’s hand. ‘Unemployment in Blackpool is among the highest in the whole of the country – especially for young people. All of us are qualified, we’ve all done exactly what the government told us to do, and yet there’s nothing here for us. If we want jobs, we have to move away from our friends and family.’
Jessica glanced at the leaflet, wondering how she could break it to him that she was only heading into the town hall to check the electoral roll, not because she had any connection to the area.
He was already off and away, sounding overly rehearsed: ‘In years gone by, there were minimum-wage jobs in hotels and cafés for young people to get themselves onto the jobs ladder, but even those are dying out. Statistics show there were more than a thousand fewer seasonal posts available this last summer. Next year will be even worse.’
‘What is it you’re hoping to achieve?’ Jessica asked.
‘Awareness – we want people to know what it’s like being young in the area. The papers have been down already and the local TV lot are on their way.’
Jessica didn’t want to break it to him that Peter Salisbury’s dead body would likely be keeping the protest from anywhere near the top story.
‘Well, you’ve certainly achieved your goal,’ she said, trying not to make it sound like the metaphorical pat on the head that it was.
‘That’s all we’re after. We want local business owners and politicians to give us a chance.’
Behind Darren, a group of girls broke into a chorus of ‘What do we want?’ ‘Jobs, jobs, jobs.’ ‘When do we want them?’ ‘Now, now, now.’
For all
the assumptions that adults made about younger people, it was an impressive show. It was all too true that the moment someone bought a house and started getting up early to go to work, they forgot all about what it was like to be anything other than the height of middle-class respectability.
‘This is good,’ Jessica said, meaning it.
Darren took a step back, one hand on his chest, beaming with pride. ‘Thank you – hopefully it’ll do some good.’
Jessica muttered some more compliments and then strode past the town hall, heading towards the town centre. The poster in her hand had given her an idea that she should already have had. She quickly found a print shop, Bluetoothed across the photograph of Bex giving her thumbs-up, and then put together a poster with ‘HAVE YOU SEEN?’ across the top. She added her mobile number to the bottom and then printed a couple of hundred. It had sort of worked for Peter the previous evening, perhaps it would work for her?
With a roll of tape, Jessica attached a few to the lamp-posts that weren’t on the main throughways. There would definitely be by-laws about flyposting and, though she wanted people to see them, Jessica didn’t want to go out of her way to incite trouble.
After getting rid of around half the stack, Jessica returned to the town hall, where the protest was still in full swing. It was a little after three in the afternoon, but the clouds were low, darkness already threatening.
Darren clocked Jessica as she neared the steps, walking quickly across to her. He seemed more upbeat than he had been when she’d last seen him.
‘Back again?’ he asked.
‘Still got things to do.’
He wasn’t listening: ‘The TV cameras have been and gone. They even interviewed one of the councillors. They made him answer questions about funding for training.’ He stopped, as if noticing her properly for the first time, and nodded to the papers in her hand. ‘Everything all right?’
Jessica held up one of the posters for him to see. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen my friend in the past couple of months? She’s called Rebecca – Bex. She’s been missing for a while but I’m sure she’s in the area.’
Silent Suspect: A completely gripping crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Jessica Daniel thriller series Book 13) Page 5